Child of the Dawn (10 page)

Suddenly he was disgusted with himself, for he was caressing his own skin the way he might touch a woman. Part of him knew why he was doing it and accepted the reason. His body, once taken for granted, was now something precious to him; he stroked it to soothe away the sense of violation that still lingered.
 

Despite the day's heat, he shivered, wanting someone warm and close who could take him in her arms. Thoughts of Tepua welled up. Yes, she could hold him, soothe him, drive away the torment....
 

Only to replace it with one even worse. Matopahu groaned aloud. It would not be Tepua's fault, but her presence would torture him more than comfort him. He could enjoy her company, but not respond to her caresses.
 

It did not matter if she understood and sympathized; unmanned as he was, her womanly allure would taunt him, making unspoken demands he could not meet.
 

No, he refused to think of her. He had to stake his hopes on the
tahu 'a
. The healer would lift this curse from him, but first he had to complete the task of restoring the ancient
marae
. And he had barely begun to clear the path!
 

The bamboo still stood before him. Wearily he staggered to his feet and swung the adze again.

 

By early afternoon, Tepua was following the priest up one of Eimeo's winding forest trails. The air was moist, filled with rich scents of earth and flowering trees. Branches overhung the path, letting only a few streaks of sunlight through.
 

After her long time away from high islands, she was still not used to climbing. The priest kept up a swift pace. Underfoot, tangles of roots crossed the red clay, making every step difficult.

She heard running water, a sound that grew louder. Following Eye-to-heaven down a muddy bank, she splashed across a stream and up the other side. Nowhere did she see any signs of habitation. Only the presence of an occasional ancient breadfruit tree suggested that people had lived here long ago.
 

She was far inland now, ascending higher, constantly trying to catch her breath in the humid air beneath the trees. From time to time the canopy of branches opened to show a jagged spire of dark stone, a sacred mountain. Suddenly the priest halted, allowing her to rest. She sat down in a clump of giant ferns and closed her eyes.
 

"My friend is just past that grove of chestnut trees. It is not far," whispered Eye-to-heaven. "I will wait here."

At last Tepua was ready. Giant
rata
trees loomed overhead, their rounded seed cases littering the ground. These trees, she knew, often surrounded sacred courtyards. Goose-flesh rose on her arms as she eyed the fluted buttresses that grew from each trunk and gave the trees a nightmarish look.
 

Ahead she heard the rhythmic sound of a stone adze chopping. The rhythm faltered. She came out from the shade to an open area that was brightened by the afternoon sunlight.
 

Matopahu!
His broad back was bathed in sweat, his copper skin streaked with grime. She fought her impulse to rush forward and embrace him.
 

As he turned to her, a strange mixture of emotions shone in his eyes. There was longing mingled with delight and desperation. In the brief instant before his face became stony and his gaze distant, she saw intense fear cross his features. No, not fear, but something stronger. Dread. Why?
 

He tossed aside the short-handled adze and wiped a sweaty hand across his face. As she advanced a step, he put up a hand and spoke in a hard rasp. "No closer. For your sake as well as mine." He lowered his head, staring at her through a begrimed tangle of curls.
 

"I am not afraid," she shouted defiantly, taking another step. Eye-to-heaven had explained about the curse. She knew that some harm might come to her if she touched him.
 

"Keep back!" Matopahu insisted. He stood there breathing hard and watching her.

Dressed as he was in nothing but a
maro
, she could readily see the toll that his exile had taken. He was markedly thinner than when she had seen him last. Bruised hollows showed under his eyes and beneath his cheekbones. The eel tattoos that had once twined so elegantly around his calves were smeared with mud and marred with scratches. There was a strained tightness in his face, and his eyes were haunted.
 

Compassion overwhelmed both her caution and the uncertainty of her feelings for him. The warnings no longer mattered. Impulsively, she crossed the distance between them....
 

For an instant she imagined herself caught up in Matopahu's crushing embrace. Then his roar deafened her. With a long cane of bamboo he blocked her path, thrust her away from him. Staggering back, she collided with the fluted buttress of a
rata
tree and recoiled in fright. She slipped on a worn root and landed heavily on her back, tears of astonishment and rage stinging her eyes.
 

"Must I be tainted twice over?" Matopahu cried. He loomed over her, his fists knotted, his eyes wild. 'This is no place for a woman," he shouted. "Go to your dancing. Go to your painted lovers!"
 

"There are none," Tepua spat back from the ground. "The only one I want is painted with mud."

His face twisted. "Would you rut with a dead man? The priests recited the
aha-tu
over my brother."
 

"The priests can recite the color of the droppings they leave on the beach! It will not change me."

"You do not understand...."

"You are right," she said bitterly, "I am an ignorant coral islander, not fit to wash your noble feet." She picked herself up, shook leaves and grass from her wrap. Then she turned her back to him and started to walk away, flinging her long hair over her shoulder.
 

"Wait." The rawness in his voice halted her, despite her rage.

She turned to face him again. "I wanted to comfort you. You flung me away as if I were something poisonous."

He swallowed. "I—I was trying to protect you."

"And yourself as well?"

In a low voice he answered, "When a man is engaged in work for the gods, he must not touch a woman."

She clenched her fists in outrage. Why did men insist that women were profane, that their touch contaminated sacred things? Having seen priests make exceptions whenever it suited them, she no longer believed this.
 

She thought there was another reason Matopahu had pushed her away, with a violence beyond what was needed. But he refused to confide in her. She stared at his tortured face. "We have been apart for so long. Is that all you can say to me?"
 

He sighed, his body slumping. In a quiet voice he admitted, "I did not want you to leave Tahiti. You remember how I argued against it. When you were gone, I watched the sea every day, hoping to see your returning sails."
 

Her hopes rose at his words. "Then we can be as we were. When these troubles are over."

"Land-crab has destroyed that chance." He spread his grimy hands and thrust them toward her. "Do you wish to suffer my fate?"

She held her ground. "I will share it with you."

"No! I must suffer alone as the last of my line."

'That is the arrogant Matopahu talking. That is the Matopahu who takes no help from anyone."

"I am a dead man. Everyone believes it."

"Eye-to-heaven does not. Nor do you."

He only glared at her and straightened up. "I have work, and you are keeping me from it. Perhaps my friends are right. Perhaps I do have a chance to save myself. But I must do it alone." He picked up the adze. "Go! Return to your Arioi and forget that you have been here. If I survive this..."
 

"Yes?"

"Then we will have something to talk about." He turned away from her and picked up his adze. She watched him for a moment as he began hacking at another stand of bamboo. Then, eyes stinging, she found her way back to the trail.
 

 

 

 

FIVE

 

A day later, as dappled sunlight penetrated the trees, Matopahu descended a mud-slick bank to take his morning bath. The hillside stream, swollen from recent rains, foamed over the rocks with a comforting roar. In this place he could forget the harsh words he had said to Tepua. He could forget the task that lay ahead of him.
 

He plunged naked into a deep pool where the stream curled around boulders. The chilly water enveloped him, stealing all thoughts. He came up, gasping and shivering, only to fling himself back in again.
 

At last he came out on the bank and shook off some of the water. Standing in a patch of sunlight, he picked up the small garment he had draped over a bush. First he passed one end of the
tapa
band between his legs, carrying it around his right hip and across his flat belly to catch and secure the front. Drawing the
maro
around his left hip, he threaded it through itself in back, reversed the direction of winding, wrapped it several times about his hips, and knotted it at his side.
 

He sighed as he forced himself to think about the work that lay ahead of him. Yesterday he had finished clearing a path to the old
marae
, finally crouching within reach of the tumbled ridge of black stones that once formed its boundary. Yet he had put off actually touching the ancient wall until he felt stronger.
 

In his memory he saw clearly the abandoned sacred court, the moss-covered stones of the wall, the overgrown paving within. The site lay deep in shadow beneath the old trees, its aura of dread hanging in the humid air. With a shudder he thrust aside his fears. Yet he could not help wishing for a distraction this morning. It would not hurt to wait until the sun rose a bit higher.
 

In the distance he heard a faint cry, a human voice, though it came from an unexpected direction. When Eye-to-heaven and the
tahu 'a
came to visit, they always used the path on the opposite side of the hill. Matopahu could not imagine who else might be climbing this isolated hillside.
 

Grateful for a diversion, however brief, he set off through the trees, soon emerging at a broad swath of cleared land that he had never seen before. He heard another shout and then the hiss of an arrow's flight. A moment later he heard a soft impact as the arrow struck the ground. This was a
te'a
court, he realized, a place where the game of the gods was played.
 

Then a boy charged by, a small white flag in his hand. He stopped where the arrow had come to rest and marked the place. When the youngster turned and saw Matopahu, he jumped back in surprise.
 

"Who is shooting?" asked Matopahu.

"The noble Fat-moon," the boy answered nervously.

Matopahu's eyebrows rose at the name of the high chief who ruled a large section of Eimeo. "Is there to be a match?"

"In ten days," the boy answered. Then he ducked as another arrow hissed overhead.

Matopahu peered down the long
te'a
court. Far in the distance he saw the shooting platform of piled stones and the figure of the kneeling archer. "Your chief shoots well," he said as a third arrow came sailing in his direction. This one fell short of the others, and the boy didn't mark it.
 

"Everyone knows that Fat-moon's team is the best on the island," said the boy, frowning. "It beats Putu-nui's every time. But you shouldn't be here. I'm the only one allowed to watch the chief practice."
 

Matopahu had heard much of this team's victories. "Then I will go," he said with a laugh. "I must not disturb the great chief." He turned to retrace his steps, knowing he must return to the old
marae
. He had found a brief respite; he could no longer put off his task.
 

 

At last Matopahu stood before the ruins of the ancient wall and tried to compose himself. These stones had been placed by men long dead. Bones of ancient priests and chiefs lay buried in the courtyard beyond. Their spirits still protected the
marae
. He could sense their presence in the shadows, in the rustling of old leaves, in the scent of decay.
 

His mouth went dry as he began to speak. In a hoarse voice, he intoned a prayer, asking permission to carry out the work he had planned. Sweat cooled on his back as he spoke, giving him a lingering chill.
 

The sensation, the priests said, was one that pleased the gods. Matopahu remembered it from nights he had spent in prayer upon the
marae
of his brother. He also recalled the great ceremony of weeding the courtyard. Stripped to the waist, he and a few privileged others had worked slowly down the
marae
from west to east, scraping the moss from the sacred paving stones. The priests, dressed in white loin-girdles, had sat aside while urging on the weeders with their chants.
 

 

It is
marae
weeding!
 

The pulling up of grass

And for the host of gods

The moss shall be scraped.

 

Matopahu sighed deeply. Those days were gone. The only
marae
he could enter now was this long-abandoned one. Cursed as he was, he did not know how the
mana
in the stones of this place would affect him. Even a momentary touch might kill a man who was out of favor with the gods.
 

He fell silent, listening, his muscles tensed against the impulse to reach for the stones. Overhead, wind rustled the branches. A voice seemed to whisper. Perhaps the spirits were answering his plea.
 

"
Why?
"
 

He strained to hear more, but the wind dropped and the leaves fell silent. Once again he chanted his prayer....

"
Why do you disturb us, living man?
" came the response. "
We have been quiet for so long.
"